Piece by Piece
by Jade Nolan
Summary: Mac has 48hr before it's "Piece by piece, game over, Detective Taylor" - primarily Mac and Flack, but featuring the whole team


**Chapter 1**

Mac sank into the seat behind his desk and pushed the power button to his computer monitor on. He winced as the notification counter for his email slid up from the bottom tool bar and sat there, the counter ticking upwards, and quietly leeching the life out of his soul with its blinkless presence. He had actually been in a good mood too despite the headache that still found its way past the Excedrin he had taken before leaving his apartment. But he was sure it'd be nothing compared to the hangover Flack would be facing this morning. He grinned at the thought.

Don had come up to his office the previous evening ostensibly to follow up on an arrest they had made earlier that day. But after asking something that could have easily been handled by a couple of one-line texts, Don slowly shuffled back towards the door, the arrest clearly not what was on his mind or what he come to see Mac about. He sat down on Mac's couch, resting his elbows on his knees, the picture of dejected indecision. Mac sat back in his chair and waited for his friend to say what was running through his head.

"Megan broke up with me," Don had finally said, leaning back with a wry, humorless smile.

"I'm sorry," Mac said simply.

"Me too," Don replied.

The two sat in understanding silence for a few moments.

"You want to go get a drink?" Mac asked suddenly, reading his friend's face.

"That'd be great," Flack answered almost before Mac had got done speaking.

Mac turned off his computer screen and desk lamp and stood up. "Come on," he said with a jerk of his head towards the door, "Let's get outta here."

30 minutes later, misery was meeting its match in a bottle of Scotch.

xxx

"You know the worst part though?" Flack asked after relating everything that had happened, as they both sat enjoying the buzz of the liquor and looking into his currently empty glass.

"What's that?" Mac asked, refilling his friend's drink and feeling the steady deterioration of his fine motor skills and his words becoming less distinct around the edges in the face of the warmth of the Scotch.

"The bitch dumped her cat on me."

Mac choked on his drink and set it down in a hurry as he coughed at the unexpected sudden burn of alcohol in the back of his throat. "What?"

Flack nodded defeatedly, "It's the stupidest most retarded cat ever, but it was her mother's whose new boyfriend is allergic, so Megan ended up with it. She showed back up last night with it and said it was more fun imagining me dealing with it than taking it to the animal shelter."

Mac fought not to burst out laughing. He cleared his throat, "Why didn't _you_ take it to the shelter?"

"It was closed when she practically threw it at me, and I had to be at work at six this morning. The bitch. She knows I hate that thing more even than she does." Flack paused, looking back down at his glass. "Bitch," he said again, draining the whiskey in one go and setting the glass down with angry emphasis.

He looked up at Mac, eyes pleading. "It jumped on the stove and refused to move off the burner, pissed on my work shirt I had set out for today, and ran straight into the front door and knocked itself flat out when it got scared after I accidentally slammed the oven closed."

Mac sat back in his chair, an amused grin teasing the corners of his mouth as his shoulders started to shake with barely suppressed humour.

"It's not funny," Flack protested aggrieved, shaking his head. But a smile started on his face as well.

"It sort of really is," Mac said. He couldn't help it. His normally iron-clad self-control was dulled with the alcohol and gave way despite his efforts. He started laughing, and couldn't stop.

Don started snickering at the memory of Megan's cat staggering back to its feet and lumbering off out of the kitchen, weaving back and forth as if _it_ had been at the bottle of Scotch he and Mac were sharing. The absolute absurdity of the whole thing hit him. He raised his hand to his mouth as he broke into an all-out grin and started laughing himself.

The morose mood was entirely shattered.

Mac finally caught his breath. He wiped his eyes and took a deep, calming breath glancing down at his empty glass. He held up the already half-empty bottle of Scotch. "Wanna drink?" he asked.

Don pushed his glass over, trying to regain his own composure. "Please," he said.

xxx

They had left the bar at midnight. Mac had to concentrate in order to walk in a straight line, but at least he could. Don could not. He leaned against a bus stop sign by the curb.

"I.. am drunk.. as shit." he said, tipping his head back.

"Yeah, you are," Mac replied, slurring his own words slightly and spreading his feet to keep his balance. He fished in his pocket to make sure he still had his cell phone.

Flack took his gaze from the sky and looked at his friend who was standing remarkably upright and stable. "Hey, how.. how come you're not piss drunk as well? You had jus' as much as _me_." He poked himself in the chest as he said the last part of the sentence.

Mac simply looked sideways at Flack as he waved down a cab, "I'm Irish," he said, "I'm supposed to be good at this stuff."

"oooooh…!" Flack retorted mockingly, waving his fingers at Mac and making his eyes big. "You know wha'," he sniffed as a cab pulled up to the curb, "I think…" he blinked and forced his tongue to make the words he wanted it to, "I think, I'm going.. to.. _walk_ home." He tried to push himself away from the bus sign. But attempting to turn in the opposite direction at the same time proved too much, and he tipped forward, tripping over his own feet.

Mac hurriedly reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, hauling him upright before his face reached the sidewalk.

"Come on," Mac said, "You're coming back with me."

Don nodded as he leaned against Mac, who despite appearing outwardly barely intoxicated, wasn't even close to sober, and nearly fell over at the sudden weight. He staggered backwards, catching his balance just in time and shoved Don upright again.

"I think," Flack conceded slowly, "tha' _might_ be a good idea."

xxx

Don kicked off his shoes and sprawled himself on Mac's couch. Mac fished a blanket out of the hall cupboard, leaning his head momentarily on the doorframe as the combination of the booze and a 22hr day, crashed over him. Pushing himself upright, he went back out to the living and tossed the blanket over to Flack. Already almost passed out, Flack cracked one eye open and pulled the green fleece over him.

"You're a good man, Mac Taylor," he said closing his eyes again.

Mac gestured dismissively as he turned to go down the hall to his bedroom. "Yeah, yeah," he said.

"I mean it," Flack mumbled. And with that, he slipped into the realm of blissful unresponsiveness.

Mac wearily fumbled with the buttons on his shirt as he walked slowly down the hall. There seemed to be a disconnect of sorts between his brain and his fingers, but finally the buttons came undone, and he draped his shirt over the chair by the closet. He pulled his undershirt off over his head, losing the rest of his clothes as well, and collapsed onto his bed. He had enough presence of mind to remember to turn on the alarm on his phone before he too sank into the sleep of the dead.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

It took Mac four mugs of coffee to plow his way through his emails.

They seemed endless.

Requests…

Approvals…

Requests _for_ approvals…

Updates…

Updates on the updates…

An invitation from Adam to join his Google circle… (he shot a daggerous look in the direction of the lab where Adam was working, oblivious)

Requests for updates…

He leaned back and rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes. He thought rather enviously of Flack who was probably at best just rolling off his very comfortable couch and looking for breakfast.

He heard a knock on his door and hurriedly sat up. It was Jo and Flack's Lieutenant. They looked extremely serious. He swiveled his chair to face them directly.

"Mac, have you heard from Flack this morning?" Jo asked, deadly serious.

"No," Mac said, quite puzzled at the appearance of the two. Even if Don had been supposed to go to work or even court this morning and had simply forgotten, it wouldn't prompt a trip to his office by the Lieutenant _and_ Jo.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Lt. McMurphy asked coldly.

"This morning. I left him sleeping on my couch," Mac replied getting somewhat peeved at the blunt line of questioning without any preamble or explanation.

"Your couch?" McMurphy repeated.

"Yeah, we went out for a few drinks last night, he was rather the worse for wear compared to me, so he crashed at my place." Mac felt the stirrings of anger simmer in his chest, and his voice took on a hard edge, "You mind telling me what this is all about?"

"This," McMurphy deposited a letter in an evidence bag on Mac's desk. Mac picked it up. "Was dropped off only fifteen minutes ago down at the precinct. Why don't you tell _me_ what this is all about."

Mac looked briefly over to Jo who met his eyes with nothing but a grim silence. He returned his attention to the letter. It was handwritten on a plain piece of printing paper.

"_You have 48hr. _

_The clock is ticking._

_Piece by piece, game over, Detective Taylor._

_The proof is on the back."_

A chill ran through Mac. His hands almost shaking, he turned over the letter. On the back, in what was clearly not red ink, were the numbers '8571'. He felt a stab under his ribs that robbed him of air. He looked back up at McMurphy and Jo who were standing, watching him.

"Flack's been kidnapped, Mac," Jo said.


End file.
